


Karma is a Bitch

by aggiepuff, Whedonista93



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Crack, F/M, Gen, so much crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-02-10 15:44:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18663385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aggiepuff/pseuds/aggiepuff, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whedonista93/pseuds/Whedonista93
Summary: Denethor survived the Ring War.  At this moment, though, he kind of wishes he hadn't.





	Karma is a Bitch

Screams echoing through the palace send Faramir, Eomer, and Aragorn running for the gardens. It’s a lovely spring day and little birds sing as they dash past rose bushes and little hedge mazes to the back of the garden where they find Eowyn leaning over the balustrade. The screams seem to be coming from over the side and, finally, Eomer realizes what they’re saying.

“Please! Please! Don’t drop me! Pull me up!”

“Eowyn,” Eomer starts, “what’re you—”

“Apologize!” Eowyn shouts, shaking the ankles in her hands. The screams turn to shrieks.

“By the Valor,” Faramir chokes, “is that—is that  _ Father _ ?”

Aragorn’s face starts to turn red, lips pressed firmly together. Eomer feels mirth bubble up in his chest. When Denethor shrieks again he can hold it in no longer. He erupts into hearty guffaws. He laughs so hard and for so long he fears he will never be able to stop. He leans on a marble column to keep from falling.

Faramir has trouble stifling his own giggles, clapping his hands over his mouth when his betrothed continues to yell at her future father-by-law.

“How does she keep from dropping him?” Aragorn asks, voice strangled.

Eomer shakes his head, gasping for breath. “Womanly rage,” he finally manages.

“Someone really should stop her,” a new voice says.

Through tear-filled eyes, Eomer sees Elphir, Prince Imrahil’s second son, watch the scene with an amused smile. Eomer forces himself to straighten, taking deep breaths to calm his laughter as he wipes the tears from his eyes. “I’ll do it. She would regret permanently harming her future father-by-law.”

Aragorn shakes his head. “I would not count on such regret.”

Eomer winces in acknowledgement and moves toward his sister. A small hand on his forearm stops him. He looks down. A woman, a very short woman, resplendent in emerald velvet stitched with delicate gold scrollwork, looks up at him with calm, blue-gray eyes. “Allow me.” She steps around him without waiting for his response. Eomer watches her, eyes wide. She wears Rohan’s colors but no  _ eorlinga _ ever had hair so dark. He wonders suddenly if it is as soft as it looks.

The woman sidles up to Eowyn and leans over the balustrade. Her arms fold across her chest. “You know, Uncle,” she says, calm and conversational, to the dangling Denethor, “you deserve everything that is happening to you right now.”

Denethor sputters and shrieks. The woman, who can only be Lothíriel, daughter of Imrahil, raises an eyebrow, turning to Eowyn. “When I told you about my uncle I thought you might simply shoot him, put him out of all of our misery.”

Eowyn shakes Denethor’s ankles again. “That would be too easy.”

Lothíriel gives Eowyn a predatory grin. “I knew we would be great friends.”

Eowyn returns the grin.

“Pull me up, you trollop!”

“Why didn’t you gag him?” Lothíriel asks, ignoring Denethor’s bellowing.

Eowyn shakes him. Denethor shrieks. “He needs his tongue to apologize for his treatment of Faramir.”

“If you didn’t have an audience I would say drop him.”

“Don’t let Father hear you say such things,” Elphir calls.

Lothíriel rolls her eyes with a sigh. “Pull him up,” she says. “King Elessar may have use for him yet.”

“You said your sister was a lady,” Eomer mutters to Elphir as the two women haul Denethor back onto solid ground by the ankles, neither taking care to be gentle.

“She is,” Elphir replies, just as quietly, “she’s wearing a dress and everything.”

“Her people call her Warg Killer,” Faramir says, finally in control of his voice, “and she’s about as genteel as a bear.” Faramir glances back at the women. “A very short bear.”

“You do realize I can hear you, yes?” Lothíriel calls without turning to the men. She stands over Denethor, arms crossed, gaze steady. “You are fortunate the king is here, Uncle,” she tells Denethor. “I suggest throwing yourself upon his mercies. You will find mercy nowhere else.”

Denethor scrambles to his feet, face ash white, pale brown eyes wide and crazed. “You horrendous, ungrateful bitch,” he spits.

Quick as lightning, Lothíriel holds a blade to Denethor’s throat. “You forget our customs, Uncle,” she says coolly, pressing the dagger against his skin. “I am a princess of Dol Amroth. I can have you beheaded for such an insult.”

Denethor shuffles back, trembling, but Eomer suddenly has a very strong desire to sweep the furious woman into his arms and kiss her soundly. There is nothing so beautiful, he thinks, as a woman ready and willing to dismember the disrespectful.

  
  



End file.
